


As For the World, As For Our Lives

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Deadmarked [6]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Eobarry, First Times, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Kissing, M/M, Nerds in Love, Schmoop, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, The Damn Biography, alternative universe, barrison, eowells - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Eobard Thawne, whoisHarrison Wells (no body-snatching complications), has broken the laws of physics to find his soulmate - who he believes will be born in the last part of the 20th century.  Barry Allen, a man who had been born with a dead soulmark, only to have it come to life when he was nineteen, has given up on ever finding his soulmate.  The night that the S.T.A.R Labs particle accelerator successfully completes its initial test is the night that these men's marks start resolving.  It is taken a while for them to find each other, but they have, and nothing will ever be the same again.





	As For the World, As For Our Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Part Six of the Deadmarked series, there is really not much plot here. Just fluffy happy soulmate schmoop about nerds falling in love. All my usual EoBarry markers are present - art deco, astronomy, plenty of kissing.
> 
> As always, all my thanks to [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/kyele/profile)[](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/kyele/)**kyele** , who has prompted and inspired and cheered on this whole series. 
> 
> Title is from Yehuda Amachai's poem, _As For the World_.

Eobard holds onto Barry and never wants to let him – _his soulmate_ – go . Not after everything he's done, all he's risked, to find him. And Barry, for his part, seems perfectly comfortable in Eobard's arms. They might have remained like that forever, but this is a police station and they will be interrupted soon enough.

But as much as he wants to keep Barry in his arms, Eobard knows they can't stay like this forever. He reluctantly releases Barry, but doesn't let him go far; there's pain in physical separation. "Will you come home with me? Spend the holiday with me?" He takes Barry's hand.

Barry's smile is like the rising sun. "That would be nice." But then he sighs. "I'm on-call for the holidays. The rest of the forensics staff have family and when the duty roster came out, I didn't have anyone to spend the holidays with, so I volunteered to work on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It seemed the right thing to do."

Eobard's heart melts. His soulmate is kind and generous and loving, qualities that Eobard Thawne has never or would ever ascribe to himself. And that Barry has no family both troubles and elates Eobard. But they will have plenty of time to get to know each other. So Eobard asks the easy question, "Do you have to come in on those days?"

Barry smiles and shakes his head, "No. I've finished all my reports, but if there's a need for a crime scene analysis, I will have to report and process the evidence."

"Then here's to hoping that Central City is crime-free for the next few days. If you do have to report, I'll make sure you get to the scene." Eobard traces a finger down Barry's cheek, along a visible path of recent tears. He's again struck through the heart. "I'm so sorry about everything, about all the pain I caused you. I didn't mean for that to happen, but it did. My reasonable security precautions turned into unreasonable blockades for my soulmate." 

Barry cups Eobard's hand against his cheek. "There's nothing to be sorry about. You came, that's all that counts."

Eobard opens his mouth to apologize again and Barry kisses him. It's just a fleeting brush of lips – nothing like what Eobard had imagined over the long decades of his search, but infinitely sweeter, better. It rocks him to the soul and he feels the electricity that's always simmering in his cells come to a full boil.

Barry pulls back and looks at Eobard with wide and almost frightened eyes. Then he smiles and touches his lips. "Wow. Is this what happens when soulmates kiss for the first time?"

"This is what happens when _we_ kiss." Eobard gently pulls Barry close and kisses him. Like Barry, he keeps the kiss soft and brief, and he keeps his power under tight control. But the call of one soulmate to another overwhelms him and another trickle of electricity flows from him to Barry. But this time, Barry doesn't pull back, he deepens the kiss, opening up to Eobard and Eobard accepts the invitation, licking carefully into Barry's mouth.

To Eobard's delight, Barry reciprocates; his tongue teasing and chasing Eobard's, his hands on Eobard's back are searching and desperate. Eobard wants nothing more than to strip Barry naked and lay him out on the table and feast on him, here and now. 

That thought is like a bucket of ice water. They are in a very public space; anyone could walk in and see them.

It hurts – physically and emotionally – to separate himself from his soulmate's eager kiss, but Eobard manages.

Barry is panting, eyes now droopy with desire, lips red and swollen. He is the most beautiful man Eobard has ever seen. And he's Eobard's soulmate.

That thought all but closes the circuit of desire again. Eobard resists. 

"What's the matter?" Barry asks, and Eobard wonders if Barry can sense his discomfort, and apparently he can. Barry smiles – all innocent enticement – answers his own question. "Sorry – this isn't really the most romantic of places and anyone can walk in."

Eobard nods. "Will you come with me?"

"Of course." Barry doesn't hesitate to answer.

"Can you leave now?"

Barry nods. "We'll go home?"

_Home_. "My home, yes – and maybe if you like it, your home, too." Eobard has to wonder if this is too much, too soon.

Barry blushes and nods. "It would be kind of strange if we lived apart. And I don't think you'll be really happy living in my apartment."

"I'm sure it's lovely." Eobard feels like he's sixteen again, all awkwardness and uncertainty. He wants to take over but he doesn't want to scare Barry.

"It's nice, but it's small." Barry bites his lip and offers, "But you can, if you want."

Eobard laughs and Barry does, too, at the ridiculousness of this conversation. He offers a middle ground. "How about if we go to your apartment and you pick up a few things and come back with me to my house for Christmas. It'll be a perfect time to get to know each other." 

Barry laughs lightly, and although it's a little hard to tell in the dim light, Eobard is certain that Barry's blushing. "That would be great."

As they leave the lab, shoulders touching, Eobard remembers his unconventional trip from S.T.A.R. Labs. "I'll need to call my driver, unless you have a car? I had been so anxious to see you, I ran here."

"In the snow?" Barry looks a little incredulous, but pleased, too.

"Yes – I was too impatient to wait for my driver. And S.T.A.R. Labs is really not that far from here. I've waited a long time to find my soulmate, I couldn't wait another moment."

Barry ducks his head. "I know how you feel."

Eobard is charmed by Barry's shyness – a pleasing contrast to how strongly he'd asserted himself at S.T.A.R. Labs. But all he asks is, "You don't mind walking?"

"No, not at all. My apartment isn't far." Barry goes to the window and checks the weather. "The snow has stopped, so we can walk and your driver can meet us there. Is that okay?"

"That will be fine." Eobard can't help but feel like he's caught in some ancient novel of manners and looming improprieties. It's a delightful sensation.

Eobard helps Barry with his jacket, enjoying how his soulmate is just a bit flustered by the courtesy. The party in the squad room is still going on and Barry waves to a few people as he leaves. The helpful desk sergeant, now wearing a Santa cap, grins and says to Eobard, "See you found him." To Barry, he says, "Merry Christmas, kid. Good to see you smiling."

Eobard wants to reach out and tuck Barry under his arm, whisk him away from everything and everyone. He's not jealous of Barry's friends and co-workers; he just needs to have Barry to himself for a little while. So they can bond as true soulmates.

As they are walking through the CCPD lobby, Barry sees someone and gives Eobard a quick look and tilts his head towards the door. Eobard keeps walking as Barry converses with the man, who looks to be in his late forties – about the age that Eobard had been with the clock had stopped. Eobard doesn't head outside; instead he lingers and pulls out his phone to call his driver. Even this short distance – a few yards – raises a physical ache.

"Samuel, my apologies for keeping you waiting." 

_"No worries, sir. Shall I bring the car around to your private entrance?"_

"No, I'm actually at the CCPD – and no, nothing is wrong." Eobard realizes he doesn't have Barry's address. "I'll need you to pick me up in a bit – perhaps an hour."

_"At the CCPD?"_

"No – I'll text the address to you. I hope I'm not keeping you from your dinner, Samuel." 

_"Not at all, Doctor Wells. The missus came by around five and we had a nice kip. She's got a thing tonight with our daughter. Thank you for asking, though."_

"You're welcome, Samuel." He hangs up and waits for Barry to finish his conversation. It wouldn't be all that hard to listen in – sound is merely vibration and Eobard's auditory system benefits from the connection to the Speed Force. But eavesdropping would be rude, so he's patient and finally, Barry's finished. The other man gives Barry a brief hug before he heads into the precinct, and Barry goes to join Eobard and takes his hand.

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah. Joe's my best friend's dad – Iris – and she just met her soulmate, the night of the particle accelerator launch and Joe wanted to make sure I'm okay. Until this year, we've always spent Christmas day together, but Joe's dating someone and Iris – "

"Iris West, right?" Eobard lets Barry lead him out of the precinct and onto the street. 

"How did you know that?"

"A young woman named Iris West had been mugged the night of her launch, her bag had been snatched. Her name was on the incident report my security team prepared."

Barry is clearly impressed. "You bothered to read that?"

Eobard shrugs. "S.T.A.R. Labs and everything about it is important to me. I'd seen the commotion from the stage. You were there, of course."

"Standing next to Iris." Barry stops and looks at Eobard, letting go of his hand. "We were close – just a few feet from the stage. Your speech – at least what I'd heard – was amazing. I wish I could have heard all of it."

"If I could actually remember what I said, I'd repeat if for you, but I can't. Other things became much more important."

"Really? What could be more important that introducing the future?"

Eobard wants to wrap Barry up in everything precious and never let him go. "The mark on my arm – " Eobard feels the burning sting all over again, and it takes all his self-discipline not to pull off his coat and jacket and roll up his sleeve, right on the public sidewalk. "It started to ache."

Barry bites his lip. "I don't remember if my mark hurt. I was chasing the mugger and he's punched me. He would have gotten away, but that's when Eddie – "

"Eddie?"

"Eddie Thawne – he's a new transfer from Keystone. A detective on the squad."

Eobard takes a moment to digest this. He'd known that his ancestors live in the Central City area, and Keystone, the older and more industrial city across the river, had been founded by the Thawnes in the mid-nineteenth century. He just hadn't expected to have any connection with them.

"What about this Eddie."

Barry lets out a little laugh. "He's Iris' soulmate. He and Iris had seen each other in passing when Iris had stopped by the station to see Joe. A few days ago, Iris mark had started resolving. But it wasn't until Iris ran after me that they'd met face to face that they realized they were each other's soulmates. It was … "

"Incredible?" Eobard has witnessed soulmates meeting and it had always left him feeling hollow and lacking.

"Yeah, but it was nothing like meeting you tonight." Barry reaches out and Eobard takes his hand again. "Nothing at all."

Eobard knows just what Barry means. 

They walk hand in hand on the quiet residential street. Snowflakes start drifting down again, but it isn't long before Barry tugs him towards a small apartment building. Eobard makes a mental note of the address.

"It's not much, but it's my home." Barry says as he opens the door and turns on the light.

The apartment is small, but it's tidy and very clearly the home of an adult.

Barry stands there, he's let go of Eobard again and his hands twisting around each other, as nervous as Eobard feels, but not as experienced in hiding his emotions. 

Eobard fights against grabbing hold of Barry again, to ease the discomfort of their physical separation.

"Can I get you something? Coffee? A drink? I might have some whiskey or something, if you want. I hosted Iris' birthday party a few months back and I think someone brought a bottle of Jack Daniels or something. I don't drink so …" Barry trails off in to awkward silence and bites his lip.

Eobard has certain standards, particularly when it comes to alcohol. His speedster metabolism means he can't get intoxicated, so when he drinks, he drinks for pleasure and nothing else. That means his preferences are quite a bit more rarified than whatever nearly forgotten bottle Barry has in his kitchen. But that doesn't matter, what matters is not letting his soulmate feel a moment of distress. "No, that's fine. Really." Eobard smiles and Barry visibly relaxes.

"I don't know why I'm so nervous."

Eobard keeps wondering the same thing about himself. His palms are cold and sweaty. He hasn't been this nervous since – well, since he turned himself into a speedster and started traveling through time to find his soulmate.

"I've just been waiting so long and …" Barry does that thing with his teeth and lip again, looking at Eobard from under ridiculously long eyelashes. 

It's all Eobard can do not to pounce on his soulmate and kiss him senseless.

"You're Harrison Wells. I don't know how I'm going to make you happy. I'm just a forensic scientist – I don't even have my Ph.D. or anything. And you're _Harrison Wells_. The Harrison Wells. You created S.T.A.R. Labs, you have more patents to your name than Thomas Edison. What can I bring to you?" Barry backs away.

Eobard is reeling. He had worried about Barry finding _him_ wanting, but Barry has his own fears and doubts. He goes to Barry and carefully enfolds him in his arms. "Your love. Your acceptance. That's all I ask for. I've been waiting a lifetime to meet you, Barry Allen. There is nothing about you that could possibly make me unhappy. We are meant to be together. We are soulmates."

Barry struggles a bit, but Eobard doesn't let go – after a heartbeat or two, Barry relaxes in his arms. He wants to tell Barry everything, but he can't – not yet. Not for a while. Barry might hold his heart, but the very strangeness that is Eobard Thawne isn't going to be easy to digest.

Eobard lets Barry go – but not far, barely an arm's length, and asks, "Do you want to stay here tonight? Would that be easier?"

Barry shakes his head. "No – I want to go home with you. I just – just – I'm still trying to process all of this."

"I understand. But we can stay here if you really want."

"No, I'm sure I want to go with you." Barry lets out a light laugh. "Of everything, that is what I'm most certain of. I just …"

Eobard can hear the corrosive self-doubt creep into Barry's voice. "I have the same worries, Barry. I'm much older than you. I'm very particular about how I've ordered my life. I'm not an especially nice person." These are the least of the problems Eobard sees, but they are the only ones he can talk about now.

"Your biographer called you arrogant, prickly and contemptuous."

"You've read it?" Eobard is both appalled and delighted.

"I'm devouring it slowly." Barry turns bright red. "It's fascinating. You're fascinating"

Eobard feels a matching tide of heat rise over his own face. "I'm not much of a people person, you know."

Barry seems more in control. "I'm not exactly Mister-Life-of-the-Party, either. I don't do a lot of socializing and I've got just a few friends. Well, just one close friend, really, but that's it."

"Iris?"

Barry nods. "And Joe, of course. But my life is pretty quiet. Don't laugh, but going to see your speech on the night of the launch had been the most exciting thing I've done in a year. Pretty pathetic, right?" 

Eobard is thoroughly delighted. "As the speaker at that event and as the owner of S.T.A.R. Labs, I have to say that your enthusiasm is anything but pathetic."

Barry gives him that up-from-under look again. "I guess you're just a little biased."

Eobard can't help himself and kisses Barry. It had been intended as something brief and sweet, but Barry grabs Eobard's lapel and holds him close, kissing him like his life depends on it.

And perhaps it does. Eobard cups the back of Barry's head, weaving his fingers through his thick, soft hair, and holds him still. _This_ is the kiss he's dreamed of for centuries, he devours and is consumed in return. All of the extraneous parts of Eobard are refined by this kiss, the worthy pieces remain and the rest are discarded.

This is what it means to have a soulmate. It's not just finding the other half of your soul, it's having the best parts of _you_ brought into the light and allowed to shine.

Barry stills in his arms and Eobard lets out a tiny, happy sigh. "Soulmate. You are my soulmate." 

"And you, Harrison Wells, are mine." 

Barry leans his head on Eobard's shoulder and so doesn't see Eobard wince in reaction to that name. _I'll just have to become used to that._

"I do need to text my driver. Unless you've changed your mind?" Eobard knows himself too well, knows that he can, with little effort, take over any situation, and it's very important that he doesn't do that. His soulmate isn't a boy in the first flush of manhood, but he's not – from Eobard's brief experience with Barry – someone who will push back to hard. And yet, as he thinks that, he has to reassess. Barry hadn't taken no for an answer when he'd tried to get in to see Harrison Wells. He hadn't backed down and he hadn't given up.

Barry steps away and the sudden absence of him is even more painful than before – perhaps an effect of their kiss. "No, I haven't changed my mind." He takes Eobard's hand. The contact eases the pain immediately, but leaves Eobard bemused. How is he going to function if he has to be in physical contact with Barry all the time? Not that he doesn't want to, but even for something as simple as sending a text – where he needs both hands – is going to be a challenge.

"You feel it, too? Don't you? It hurts a little when we're separated."

Eobard squeezes Barry's hand. "New soulmates – it's part of the bond."

"Yeah, my mom and dad had told me it was like this when they had first bonded. They called it 'skin-hunger' – and I didn't understand it until now."

Eobard knows all about this need to touch and be touched. By the twenty-fifth century, the study of soulmates is extensive, but it all comes down to individual experience. It's possible that this 'skin-hunger' will only last for days. Or it could last for months. Or years. There's no clock for these things, and given how he's searched through time to find his soulmate, all the decades of bearing a deadmark, the skin-hunger might just last for the rest of his life. 

"You are my soulmate." Eobard still feels all of the wonder and joy from that simple statement. He will always feel that wonder.

"And you are mine." Barry blinks and then laughs. "But we've both got lives we have to live." He deliberately lets go of Eobard's hand. "Send your text. Let me pack a bag, okay?"

The pain returns; it's not agonizing, just a discomfort, like a constant low-power electric shock.

Barry disappears into his bedroom and the ache intensifies. Eobard does his best to ignore it and sends a message to Samuel with the address. His driver responds that he'll be there in about fifteen minutes. 

While Eobard waits for Barry, he takes a look around the apartment. There is a shelf full of books and journals – biographies of the greatest scientific minds of the modern age, copies of the essential treatises on mathematics and physics and astronomy and chemistry. Barry's heroes and heroines, it seems.

There's a binder shoved into the corner, it's out of place and ruining the neat line of books. Curious, Eobard pulls it out and takes a look. It's a compilation of the articles and essays that Eobard had written during his sojourn here in the twenty-first century. Eobard flips though the collection and finds the though-piece he'd written for _Axiology_ in 1994.

"That's where I discovered the equation. I had read the article it a few years ago and it took a while to remember why the mark on my arm seemed familiar." Barry has come back into the living room, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

"Where did you get a hold of that ridiculous piece of nonsense?" Eobard shakes his head at the hubris of that essay.

"It's not nonsense – it brought us together."

"Of course, and whatever regrets I have about writing it are inconsequential to the fact that it has brought my soulmate to me. But I am still curious; the journal's out of print and I think, at its height, it only had a circulation of a thousand copies a year."

"Iris. She never pretended to understand my obsession with you, but she has always been my biggest enabler. She's a reporter for the CCPN and a good friend of hers worked the science beat, so she used those credentials to get copies of everything. It was the best birthday present I ever received."

_My obsession with you…_ Eobard files away what Barry had just inadvertently told him. "So, you saw the mark on your arm and remembered the equation from that rather pompous piece of tripe I'd written?"

Barry laughs, "It took a little effort to put the two together. When I saw the equation, it struck a chord in my memory but I couldn't quite grasp it. I went for a run along the river and was at S.T.A.R. Labs when I finally made the association. And until I saw it, I couldn't believe it was really possible that you were my soulmate. So no, it's not a 'pompous piece of tripe' – but it is unusual for you – not anything like what you've written before or since. I had wondered, though …" Barry shakes his head and cuts himself off.

"You'd wondered what?" Eobard finds himself breathless in anticipation of the answer.

"If you were a little stoned when you wrote it." Barry grins in delight.

A bark of laughter erupts out of Eobard, of all the things. "No, I wasn't stoned – because, frankly, if I had been, it would have been a better essay." That's not quite the truth, but there's no point in splitting hairs at the moment.

"It was perfect, Harrison. It brought us together."

Eobard smiles and the lovely peace and contentment he experiences whenever Barry is happy washes over him. "May I see it? Your mark?"

Barry nods, his eyes large and grave, and he rolls up his sleeve. The photograph that Barry had sent had failed to capture the living essence of the mark. Eobard touches it and lightning chases up and down the lines that form the equation. Even as he takes his finger away, the mark shimmers with life. He envies Barry – to have lived with something of such beauty, its secrets just waiting to be revealed.

Eobard reluctantly pulls down Barry's sleeve and carefully buttons his cuff. "We have so much to discuss, Barry. But I think, perhaps, we should wait until we're home."

Barry nods in agreement, his smile shy and tender. "Shall we go?"

There's a slight struggle as Eobard goes to take the duffle bag off of Barry's shoulder.

"You're not going to let me be chivalrous, are you?"

Barry just grins. "I'm not a wilting flower, you know."

"Yes, I do." Eobard sighs and lets go of the bag. Even in the twenty-fifth century, the manners his parents had instilled had been somewhat old-fashioned.

He does guide Barry out of the apartment and down the front steps, where Samuel is waiting with the Rolls. Barry stops and lets out an appreciative whistle. 

"That is something I hadn't expected. I thought you'd drive something very modern and sleek."

"Don't be fooled by the styling. It was little more than a shell when I found it; none of the running gear is period-correct." Eobard is delighted by Barry's delight.

"Probably a wise choice – I'd imagine it wouldn't be practical or easy to keep a 1930's era twelve-cylinder engine running smoothly if you're using it every day."

"No, not practical at all." Eobard is successful in taking the bag off of Barry's shoulder and hands it to Samuel, who will stow it in the trunk. Although it's still snowing, Eobard doesn't get into the car, but takes a moment to make introductions. 

"Barry, this is my driver, Samuel Jenkins. He's been with me for a while – and when he's not wasting time driving me around, Samuel is responsible for the care of this beauty and the creation of several other flights of fancy. He is an automotive wizard."

"Ah, Doctor Wells, I wouldn'a say that. I'm just taking your ideas and putting a practical spin on 'em."

"Don't be fooled by Samuel's modesty. I'm just a checkbook, he's the genius."

Samuel – as always – brushes off the compliment.

"And Samuel, I would like to introduce you to Barry Allen. He is – " Eobard wasn't ready yet to announce their status yet, and he looks at Barry and smiles. Barry smiles back in understanding, and Eobard says, "very important to me. Treat him as you treat me, please."

"Mister Allen, I am at your service." Samuel tips his cap to Barry in a gesture of respect.

The wind picks up and the snow swirls around them. Samuel opens the door and Barry precedes Eobard into the car. As Samuel pulls away from the curb, Eobard feels as if all the disparate pieces of his life have fallen into place.

And perhaps more profound than that, Eobard is happy.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Barry isn't quite sure that he's not dreaming. He's sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven car that rarely seen outside of a museum next to Harrison Wells. His idol. His idée fixe.

But all of that pales in comparison to the simple fact that he's sitting next to his soulmate. 

In marked contrast to their earlier behavior, there is now an enforced distance between them. Harrison has his hands on his knees and Barry – hoping he's understanding correctly – mimics the posture. Harrison notices and gives Barry an apologetic smile before glancing towards Samuel. Despite the nearly five-hundred page biography, it seems that Harrison is a man who values his privacy. Although the skin-hunger is painful, Barry can understand that. Perhaps it's a remnant of all the years living with a deadmark, but he's always been uncomfortable with public displays of affection.

"Are you all right?" Harrison's question is simple, but fraught with too much meaning.

Barry's quick to reassure his soulmate – the ache is bearable and in a way, Barry takes pleasure from it. "I'm fine."

Harrison nods and puts a bare hand on the seat, leaving another hand width of space between them. Barry reads this an invitation and puts his hand next to his soulmate's, but doesn't touch him. The skin-hunger intensifies, perhaps in response to this unresolved proximity. Harrison stretches his fingers, just enough to make contact, and it's as if an electrical circuit has closed. The pain stops, but it's replaced by another hunger – one that certainly will not be satisfied in the back of a car.

Barry swallows and clears his throat, and thinks of the most innocuous question he could ask. "Do you live in Central City?" 

"I keep an apartment in one of the high rises near the University, but it's really more of a convenience, a concession to late nights. My house – my home – is about a half-hour outside the city limits, in the foothills of the St. Francois Mountains."

"I once went camping out there – it's beautiful country." That a a silly thing to say, but Harrison seems to find it interesting.

"Do you like camping?" 

"Hell, no." Barry bursts out, much to his embarrassment. 

"Why?" Harrison is genuinely curious.

"Perhaps it's the whole lack of plumbing, or perhaps the bears, or the skunks." But then Barry remembers the night sky. "I did love that I could see the Milky Way; the stars seemed close enough to touch. That was amazing." 

"There's nothing wrong with that." Harrison is quick to reassure him. " My home is on one of the higher peaks and although it's surrounded by forest, there is an unobstructed view of the night sky."

"I should have brought my telescope." And then he says, "Iris says I'm such a big nerd."

Harrison laughs gently. "If you're a 'big nerd', what does that make me? I'be built a small observatory, which I hope you'll find sufficient."

"How are you real? How is this really happening?"

Not until he feels Harrison's hand wrapped around his does Barry realize that he'd actually spoken out loud.

"I don't know, but I'm not questioning it." Harrison sweeps his thumb across Barry's knuckles – a gesture as intimate as a kiss – and Barry lets out a tiny sigh.

Never inclined to fill dead air with meaningless conversation, Barry instead concentrates on the feel of Harrison's hand, his palm warm and hard, his thumb lightly callused. This is the hand of a man who has lived a life, who has created a world for himself, who is uncompromising in his quest for knowledge.

This is also the hand of his soulmate.

Harrison asks, "Do you have any holiday traditions you'd like to observe?"

"Other than spending the holiday with Iris and Joe, no, not really. My parents have been gone a long time and I don't really have any other family."

"What happened to them?"

Barry tries to be as matter-of-fact as he can. "They were coming home from a vacation and a deer jump out in front of their car and the car flipped when my dad tried to swerve. Half of the deer ended up inside the car. The police said they were killed instantly." The familiar ache of loss wells up inside Barry.

"I'm sorry." Harrison squeezes Barry's hand. "To leave you alone like that."

"I was nineteen, I wasn't a child." Barry's not sure why he'd needed to say that.

"They were still your parents, you loved them."

"I did – I still do. But I'm glad they went together."

"They were soulmates?"

"Yeah." Barry lets out a tiny sigh.

"Was it difficult for you?"

"What do you mean?" It _had_ been difficult, but Barry's still surprised by the question.

"Children of soulmated parents can often feel excluded from their family. They are loved, but the bond between parents can often leave offspring with a vague sense that they really don't belong."

Barry knows that feeling all too well. The love between Nora and Henry Allen had been all-consuming. They loved him – their child – but Barry always had the sense that they would have been perfectly happy if he'd never been born.

"Were your own parents soulmates?" Given Harrison's age, it's just on the inside line of what's possible. The first recorded soulmarks had only appeared in the early 1950s.

"Yes. And it's not just that, I've made a study of the phenomena."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Barry laughs and shakes his head. "You are Harrison Wells and you _will_ study anything and everything that interests you."

"And you don't, Barry Allen?"

"That's true." It is. Barry often follows the vaguest of trails down the most obscure paths to find the answers he needs. That's why he enjoys his work as a CSI.

The lights of Central City fade into darkness as the car eats up the highway miles. 

"What are you thinking?"

"Don't laugh, but I hope I'll have a chance to get a good look at the workings of this magnificent beast of a car."

Harrison chuckles. "She is rather special."

"You don't mind that I'm thinking of something other than you?" Barry feels like he's just put his foot in his mouth. He's sitting with his soulmate and he's thinking about the car they're in.

"I would think that we'd both find our lives a little one-dimensional if every thought we have are about each other."

"It sometimes felt like my mother and father would only think about what the other wanted or needed. I remember …" Barry stops short at a memory.

"You remember what?"

Barry sighs and shakes his head, as if to banish the memory.

"Barry?"

"I must have been seven or eight and it was summertime. I was with my mother in the grocery store and I picked up a container of strawberry ice cream and my mother took it out of my hand and put it back in the freezer, saying that that dad didn't like strawberry ice cream."

"But you did?"

"Yeah." The memory makes Barry feel sick at heart. He'd loved strawberry ice cream but he doesn't ever remember liking since. It had always tasted _wrong_ after that. "They didn't ignore me, but …"

"Your parents raised a smart and loving child – we've only known each other for a few hours, but I can see the type of man you are and such goodness and generosity doesn't come from someone who was deprived of love."

Barry lets out a breath and nods. "I know they loved and cared about me, I was always important to them, they never deliberately make me feel anything less than loved, but they always came first in each other's lives." Barry blinks against tears he's never let fall. "I don't know why I feel so lost all of a sudden. I've been waiting a lifetime for you and now I'm spoiling it."

Harrison lifts Barry's hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to it. Barry glances at Samuel up front and looks back at his soulmate. This gesture seems so shocking given Harrison's earlier circumspection. "Thank you."

The outer world is no longer dark. They are traveling up a long, lighted path and the Rolls comes to a stop in front of a large, modern house, at least it looks modern from the bit that Barry can see.

A damp, snow-scented chill permeates the car as Samuel gets out and opens the passenger door. Harrison exits and holds out his hand for Barry.

Snow, much heavier than in the city, is turning the world white and it feels like everything has been touched by magic.

Harrison takes Barry's hand again as they walk up a covered path. Contrary to Barry's expectations, no servant comes to open the door, but instead, Harrison presses his hand against a small pedestal and the front door swings open. 

Samuel has followed behind them with Barry's duffle bag. He leaves it in the entryway and bids them good night, shutting the world out behind him.

Harrison takes Barry's hand and pulls him into a grand living room. "Welcome home, Barry. Welcome to my home."

Barry ignores the gleam of glass and marble and the artwork and all the precious things on display. He returns the gesture Harrison had made in the car and kisses his soulmate's hand. "You are here, so this must be my home, too."

Keeping his eyes on his soulmate's face, Barry pulls Harrison's hand to his lips and kisses it, too. Harrison closes his eyes for a moment and Barry feels an electric shiver trace along the letters and numbers in his own soulmark.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Eobard feels the kiss echo up his arm as his soulmark tingles with the power of his body with Barry.

"Can I see it? Your soulmark?"

Eobard sucks in a sharp breath. He's been expecting this question, longing for this moment, and dreading it, too. "Of course." Eobard has already shed his coat and divested Barry of his jacket, but he hesitates.

Barry notices that hesitation and retracts his request. "You don't have to – not if you don't want to."

"My dear Barry, you will see it soon enough. Unless we are going to conduct the intimacy of our lives together in full darkness." Eobard covers his unease with a bit of humor.

"No! No, of course not – but if you're not ready, I can wait."

"No, I'm ready – it's just that …" Eobard sighs. "I've never been comfortable with putting myself on display, at least not outside of S.T.A.R. Labs."

"And I guess that includes the biography?"

Eobard winces, some day that book is going to come back and bite him in the ass. "I agreed to it because of S.T.A.R. Labs, shining a bright light on the work we do there is important."

"There's a lot of the personal stuff in the book, but I'm thinking that it's not the real you." Barry gives him a look; it's both skeptical and understanding. "It's the image that you want the public to think of when they think of Harrison Wells. Billionaire genius scientist and asshole."

Eobard laughs. But he can't deny it. "Tell me what you really think."

"I think it's a good cover. You work hard to come across as prickly and hard to please and harder to get to know. The interviews with your family seem like they were actors given a script to read. What I've reis is not who you are. Or at least it's not the sum total of who you are. You might be a contemptuous son of a bitch, but you are someone who cares deeply – particularly for the people around you." 

Eobard blinks, almost overwhelmed by emotion. "I'm not … I don't know – " He's at a loss for words. And doesn't regain his power of speech even when Barry presses a soft kiss against his lips. It's a gesture of comfort, much as what Eobard had done just a little while ago, in the car.

"I knew that having a soulmate would mean that so many things I've kept buried would see the light of day, but I never expected the reveal to be so devastating."

Barry gives him a sad smile. "I've told you things I've never shared with anyone. You've let me see parts of you that you work hard to keep hidden." He kisses Eobard again. "Perhaps having a soulmate means we can finally stop hiding who we truly are."

Eobard feels like he's been stabbed. Barry had discovered a profound truth and there will come a time, sooner than Eobard finds comfortable, when he'll have to tell Barry exactly who he is. But for now, Eobard steels himself against the skin-hunger and steps back. He undoes his cuff and rolls up his shirt sleeve, revealing his mark. 

Barry looks at it, doesn't say a word, and rolls up his own sleeve; he looks from his arm to Eobard's and back. "They are the same. Our marks are the same. I didn't think that was possible."

Eobard shakes his head, "It shouldn't be – but it is."

"Well, nothing about my soulmark has been ordinary, so why shouldn't we have matching marks?" Barry sighs. "There's something I need to tell you about my mark."

Eobard can't begin to imagine what could be so strange about Barry's mark. "It's beautiful – the colors are incredible."

Barry lets out a sad little laugh. "I was born with the mark, but it was completely lifeless. My parents took me to a dozen specialists – a pointless waste of time and money. Even though my parents had documented evidence that the mark had been on my arm when I came out of the womb, most of the doctors were convinced that either my parents had tattooed me or when I got a little older, that I'd made the mark myself. They referred my parents to plastic surgeons and dermatologists and tattoo removal specialists who'd get rid of the ugly stain."

Why he didn't even think that Barry might have had a deadmark escapes him. After all, before he bent the laws of physics to his will, he'd often imagined that his soulmate – lost in time – also bore a lifeless mark. But he still has a role to play, and asks, "Your mark was dead?"

"Yeah – it was ugly and lifeless and I hated it for a long time." 

Eobard puts his hand over Barry's arm, when the mark is. "But you didn't want to get rid of it? If such a thing is even possible?" Of course Eobard knows that there is no way to get rid of a soulmark; not even amputation. By the twenty-fifth century, there many are recorded cases of amputees' marks reappearing on other body parts. But that's not for Barry to know, _yet_.

"No, and I'm glad I didn't. My mark came to life a few months after my parents died. I always figured that my soulmate had just been born. Which means that I've spent the last eight years thinking my soulmate was a small child and reconciling myself to the fact that it would be many more years before we'd meet and start a life together. But as soon as I saw the mark I knew I'd been wrong. Even before I remembered the article, I knew that my soulmate was an adult, someone who would challenge me intellectually and emotionally."

Eobard knows he has to share some of the truth about his mark. He can't lie to his soulmate, even the thought of doing that brings a visceral disgust. "Barry – "

"Harrison?" There's a teasing lilt to his soulmate's voice.

"You weren't alone with having a dead mark."

Barry gasps. "You, too?"

Eobard nods. "Mine was dead for a long time, too."

"When did it come to life?"

Eobard finds it difficult to say the words, but he forces them out. "A few hours before the particle accelerator launch." He is beyond grateful that he'd activated the failsafe and didn't let the planned "accident" occur. Who knows what kind of monsters he might have created.

But Barry knows nothing about that. He throws his arms around Eobard, murmuring all kinds of comforting nonsense, most of which are apologies. Of course, having Barry in his arms is one of the sweetest joys he's ever experienced – a close second to kissing Barry – but Barry's grief over his own tragedy seems misplaced.

"Shh, shh – it's all right. I'm all right. You're here, I've found you and we are together. Isn't that what counts?"

Barry looks at him through luminous tear-filled eyes. "It's just – to go for so long without hope, with believing that the person who was destined to love you and believe in you didn't yet exist or is already dead, is so terrible. And I know how it feels – that is something I'd dealt with for almost twenty years. But for you to have lived with that knowledge for so much longer – that breaks my heart."

Eobard kisses Barry, he needs to stop his soulmate's pain. He kisses Barry, and whispers, "It's all right, I'm all right. You're here now. Nothing else matters."

Barry clutches at his back and offers similar words of comfort.

And then, in a moment of comic relief, Eobard's stomach lets out an audible growl. The downside of being a speedster – even one who doesn't use his speed on a regular basis – is the need for regular meals. "How unromantic. Can I interest you in dinner?"

Barry blushes and admits, "I didn't want to admit it, but I'm kind of hungry, too. Haven't really been eating much lately. But now, I think I'm starving."

Eobard looks at Barry and understands what has kept his appetite at bay. "Well, I'm not a gourmet cook, but I can put together a passable meal for us."

He leads Barry towards the back of the house and a large, glossy kitchen. When Eobard had landed permanently in the very late twentieth century, he'd been bemused by the population's fascination with food and cooking, and for those who could afford it, the use of only the freshest and finest ingredients. Bemusement soon became obsession; he didn't become a glutton but he certainly he'd fallen in love with the culinary delights of this century. Foods that had become extinct in his own era – coffee and beef and scotch and wine, fruits and vegetables – were sampled with enthusiasm.

And then there was chocolate. As varied a delight as wine or scotch.

He'd nearly lost his way, indulging in all the sensory delights that this era had to offer. Earlier this evening, Barry had asked him if he'd been high when he'd written that essay for _Axiology_. Of course he hadn't lied, but he hadn't told Barry the complete truth. At the time, he'd just discovered chocolate and had formulated most of that essay in a _theobromine cacao_ -induced haze of delight.

"Is there anything in particular you'd like?" Eobard is in the mood for red meat, but it's quite possible that Barry's a vegetarian.

"I'm good with anything. No allergies, no real dislikes except for eggplant." Barry wrinkles his nose and Eobard thinks it's adorable.

"Let's see what I've got." The refrigerator is well stocked with fresh ingredients and meals that his housekeeper had prepared to tide him over a holiday that he had every expectation of spending alone. There is also a package containing a perfectly aged piece of filet mignon.

He turns and asks, "What about steak?"

"Sounds good to me."

Eobard can't remember spending a more enjoyable hour in his kitchen. Barry is a competent sous-chef, lending a hand for all the minor tasks that go into preparing a meal, and offering suggestions from time to time.

"You like to cook?"

"Yeah, but what I really love is baking. My apartment has a tiny kitchen with a very uncertain oven, so I don't get much of a chance to indulge."

Eobard is momentarily distracted by the thought of eating pastries and cakes and breads made by his soulmate's hands. He swallows against both hunger and desire. "I offer up my not-so-humble kitchen and its exceptional oven if you wish to … indulge."

"Is there anything in particular that you like?" Barry asks with studied indifference.

"Chocolate. Anything with chocolate." Eobard feels himself blushing.

"If you have ingredients handy, I can make that happen." Barry lifts his chin and gives Eobard a look best described as seductively challenging. Or perhaps Eobard's projecting. Either way, it's a good look on his soulmate.

Dinner seems to provide a hiatus in the intensity between them – a welcome trough between the peaks of painful skin hunger. But as the meal comes to an end, Eobard finds himself reaching for Barry as Barry reaches for him. Just the simple tangle of fingers across the table eases the pain.

"May I show you my home?" Eobard has dreamed of this moment for far too long.

"Yes, I'd like that."

Eobard takes Barry's hand as they wander from room to room. There's such pleasure in sharing the beautiful things he's filled his home with. And Barry's surprisingly knowledgeable about art.

"I had taken a few classes in art history and humanities the semester after my parents died. I felt myself burning out and wanted something different for a while. I really love the post-World War I period, it's the fusion of the practical with the fantastic – the machine age rendered in art." Barry lifts his free hand and ghosts his fingers over a Rene Lalique sculpture. "It looks like it's in perpetual motion, divorced from time – but it's not at all abstract."

"You see me far too clearly." Barry looks at Eobard in puzzlement, and he adds, "I had acquired that piece for the very reasons you've just articulated." 

"Is this your favorite?"

"It's one of them. But I do tend to keep the very special ones in my library."

"You have a library?" Barry laughs lightly. "I didn't expect that. An office or laboratory maybe, but not a library."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You are a futurist, Harrison, and libraries – even private ones – are decidedly old-fashioned."

"I don't think you can welcome the future if you don't understand the past. And besides, I have a rather uncharacteristic fondness for old-fashioned printed books." Eobard doesn't care that he sounds a bit pompous. The library is his pride and joy, a re-creation of a room he'd seen in a museum when he'd been a child, with hand-cut wood paneling and floor to ceiling bookcases and display cabinets. It's a room that stands in proud opposition to the modernity of the rest of the house.

Barry looks around, his eyes wide, and while he lets go of Eobard's hand, the stinging pain of skin hunger doesn't erupt along his nerves. Eobard watches Barry explore, drifting through the room, frequently looking back at him. Finally, Eobard can't take it anymore and asks, "Well?"

"This is your heart, your home – this room is _you_." Barry reaches out and Eobard takes his hand again.

"Perhaps – perhaps I built this as a substitute for the soulmate I'd despaired of ever meeting." 

"Harrison …" Barry sighs mournfully. 

"It's okay – you're here, you're with me. That's all that matters."

Barry nods. "I do understand, but it still hurts to think of all the years you've been alone, believing that you'd never meet your soulmate, that he was gone without you having even a single moment together."

It is so very hard not to tell Barry everything – the long, lonely decades of a life that won't exist for another four centuries, the study and research driven by the need to find his soulmate, the agony of his transformation, the risks he'd taken with traveling through time. But telling Barry now might irrevocably damage their bond – shatter them both and leave them broken and alone. 

Eobard finds the words, somehow, to still the pain. "The _now_ that we have together matters so much more than the past that lead us here. Accept that as gospel truth."

"Okay, okay." Barry sneaks a glance at him again and looks like he's about to say something, but instead, he pulls him over to a lighted display cabinet and asks him about the contents. 

Eobard knows he's falling deep into lecturer mode – a legacy of his tenure as university professor – but Barry is perhaps his most eager pupil, asking questions and making observations that spark further discussion. They pause a few times for refreshment; Eobard introduces Barry to the pleasures of fine scotch and discovers that his soulmate has an almost otherworldly palate. 

It's only when Barry starts giggling uncontrollably over something that isn't all that amusing does Eobard realize that his soulmate is drunk. And he can actually feel it himself; a muted fuzziness, a buzzed detachment that is more like a memory of intoxication than that actual state.

Eobard kisses Barry.

"What's that for?" Barry asks with the deliberate concentration of the slightly sloshed. 

Eobard kisses Barry again. "Just because. Do I need a reason to kiss my soulmate?"

Barry sighs and rests his head against Eobard's shoulder. "No, and I like that you like kissing me. Because I like kissing _you_. I _like_ you, Harrison Wells. I mean – I always admired you, but you kind of terrified me at first. But you're not terrifying. You're sweet and kind and generous and nice to people because that's just the way you are. I really do think that biography's bullship. Wait, wait – I mean _bullshit_. I think the book's a good cover because you don't want people to realize what a good man you are."

Eobard struggles not to laugh at this inebriated reiteration of Barry's earlier opinion on the portrait that biography had painted. "Oh?" 

Barry looks at him and blinks owlishly. "I know I'm supposed to like you – you're my soulmate. But I like you in spite the crazy marks on our arms. I'm glad you're my soulmate because otherwise I would never have gotten the chance to know that the great and fearsome Harrison Wells loves chocolate and scotch and Art Deco and …" Barry sighs and pats Eobard's chest. "You're so wonderful. I'm so happy."

Eobard doesn't quite know what to make of this extraordinary speech, not because it's the silly rambles of an intoxicated man, but because it rocks him to his soul.

"You, Barry Allen, are wonderful, too. And I don't have the words to tell you how happy I am."

Barry's smile is luminous. "Good." 

Eobard brushes a soft kiss against Barry's lips. "I think I might have gotten you drunk. That wasn't my intention."

"Mmm, intention or not, I'm the world's lightest lightweight. Don't drink much, never did. But I like what you offered me tonight. I wonder if it's because it's something you like. I've heard that soulmates will like the same things – so maybe?" Barry's rambling trail off as he nestles against Eobard.

Eobard rubs his cheek against Barry's hair, breathing in the scent of shampoo and perspiration. Eobard's not just happy, he's content. He has everything he's ever wanted in his arms. He has his soulmate.

Who lets out a prodigious yawn. "I'm sorry."

"It's been a long day – for both of us." Eobard can barely believe that this is still the same day that he'd chewed out Brie Larvan for her spectacular failure in identifying the faces in the launch night crowd. And as that thought occurs, Eobard himself is swamped by a wave of exhaustion. "To bed?"

Barry freezes in his arms and steps away. The separation is excruciating and Eobard doesn't understand what's gone wrong. "Barry?"

Barry looks at Eobard, his expression lost and frightened. "There's something you should know, Harrison. You might not like it."

Eobard reaches out for Barry, but Barry stays out of reach and wraps his arms around himself. All Eobard can do is offer reassurances, "There's nothing you could tell me that will make me unhappy with you." 

"I'm a virgin."

"Good." The word pops out of Eobard's mouth without thought or consideration. 

Barry blinks. "You mean that?"

This time, when Eobard reaches for Barry, his soulmate doesn't shy away. "I am delighted. It may be extremely old-fashioned, but I like the thought of being your first."

Barry whispers, "First and only." 

"Yes. And only."

"My friend, Iris – she hadn't wanted to wait for her soulmate. She's the type of person that grabs the world and shakes it until it gives her what she wants. I couldn't. I know it might sound a little crazy, but I never really wanted anyone but my soulmate, whoever that would be. That doesn't mean I've never – well – pleasured myself, but I've never been with anyone who's made me feel like I wanted to feel – with my soulmate."

"And you didn't have to." Eobard's spent enough time in this era to understand how sexuality is perceived. Anything that deviates from society-imposed norms gets smeared with shame. Sadly, it's not so different in the twenty-fifth century, where everything is complicated by soulmarks. "But know this, Barry – there is nothing you could do or say that will change how I feel about you. While I love the idea of being your first – and your only – it's nothing more than an atavistic mating response. A coded reaction from my hindbrain."

Barry relaxes. "I just don't want to disappoint you."

"Never." Eobard sighs. "And I probably should have made my own expectations clear. It's more important that we get to know each other, beyond the soul bond. I want to share my bed with you, but until we're both ready and comfortable with each other, sex will wait."

"Are you sure?" Barry does that thing where he bites his lip and looks far to delicious for Eobard's peace of mind.

"I wouldn't want to take kissing – and perhaps some petting – off the table, but coitus – "

Barry actually snorts at that.

"Sorry, shall I say 'fucking' instead?"

"No, coitus is fine. It's just not a word I expected to hear out of your mouth. And I don't know why not, because you're Harrison Wells and you know all the right words to use."

Tipsy Barry is back. And so is Tired Barry, who lets out another yawn.

"So, to bed?"

Barry nods and lets Eobard lead him out of the library and back towards the front of the house. Barry is so tired that he doesn't even object when Eobard picks up the duffle bag.

As Eobard guides Barry towards the master suite, he's struck by a very singular thought. This will be the first time he's shared his bed with anyone since he'd settled into this era. And if he looks at time in a wholly linear fashion, Eobard hadn't been intimate with another person in more than twenty-three years. They pause at the door and Eobard laughs.

"What's so funny?" 

"I don't know if it'll matter to you, but you are the first person who will share my bed – here in my home."

Barry is stunned. "Really?"

"Just as you've found even the idea of having sex with someone who's not your soulmate uninspiring, I have, too."

"But – but you said that your mark had been dead until just a little while ago? That means …" 

Eobard nods. "I'm not inexperienced, but it's been a very long time for me. Longer, perhaps, than you've been alive."

_"Harrison – "_

Eobard brushes the hair off of Barry's forehead. "I think we are going to find we're more alike than we ever expected."

He opens the door and guides Barry into his bedroom. Like his library, he'd favored warmer materials and tones than are found in the rest of the house, but unlike the library, the room is capped with an enormous domed skylight.

Barry looks up and blinks. "This might actually be better than an observatory."

Eobard's gaze doesn't waver from his soulmate face. "Hmm, it does have its charms." The dome is made from materials shouldn't really exist in the twenty-first century and the snow doesn't collect on it, even in the most brutal storms. It's also photosensitive and self-cleaning.

But that's not for Eobard to share just yet. "What are your bedtime rituals?" He wonders if he's making things more or less awkward – he's always had a preference for direct speech and little time or interest in playing passive-aggressive conversational games. 

"Um, the usual things? Brushing my teeth, washing up?" Barry blushes and asks, "That's what you were asking, right?"

It suddenly occurs to Eobard that his question has another, more salacious interpretation. "I was actually wondering if you showered at night or in the morning." 

"Depends." Barry's still giving him a look. His blush goes from soft pink to bright red.

Eobard sighs. "I was _not_ asking if you wanted to jerk off."

That gets a startled laugh from Barry.

"What _is_ so amusing?"

"Nothing, Harrison." Barry shakes his head but he's still smiling.

"Really?" Eobard can't figure out the source of his soulmate's amusement.

"Okay – you use 'coitus' instead of 'fucking' but say 'jerk off' instead of 'masturbate'. Your inconsistencies are kind of funny." 

Not the least be ashamed, Eobard pulls Barry into a one-armed hug. "You are the delight of my life."

Barry doesn't answer; he simply relaxes against Eobard, a lean armful. 

Eobard shows Barry the bathroom and leaves him to his nightly rituals, whatever they might be. He'd future-proofed the construction of the master suite, planning for the eventual occupation by his soulmate, but even when his mark came alive, when it resolved into the speed equation, Eobard didn't open up the rest of the suite, with its second bathroom, closet and dressing room. It seemed like he'd be tempting fate to do so. 

But there's always tomorrow, and it's possible that Barry might want to make changes. So, for tonight, they'll have to take turns.

Unlike Barry, Eobard prefers to shower in the evenings. He also prefers to sleep in the nude – but that's likely too much too soon. That doesn't mean he doesn't own sleepwear, after all, he's spent his fair share of evenings in hotels. While he waits, he uses the time to collect a robe and locate a pair of sleep pants. Eobard strips and pauses in front of the mirror in his dressing room. He's never been a particularly vain man, and the speed force in his DNA will keep his body strong and fit for an eternity, but it is still the body of a man in his early forties. Barry is all youth and beauty and Eobard's lost count of the years that have passed while he's been waiting for his soulmate.

He puts on the robe and makes a deliberate effort to put these thoughts out of his head. 

And then all coherent thought escapes him when Barry comes out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a pair of sleep pants and a few drops of water. 

"I showered – I hope you don't mind."

"Ah – uh – no. No, of course not." Eobard doesn't move, he can't think, perhaps because all the blood in his brain has migrated to his groin. 

"Harrison? Is everything okay?" 

Eobard lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. "I am a man who prides himself on his control. Right now, you are demolishing that. Just by standing there."

"Really?" Of course, Barry blushes again and Eobard is fascinated to see the pink rise from his belly button.

"Yes, really. Now – let me take care of business. You can get into bed if you want. Or …" Eobard has never felt so off-kilter.

Barry reaches out and grabs Eobard's hand as he walks by. The contact is electric and Eobard can feel the speed force rise in this blood. 

Eobard lingers for a moment and watches Barry climb into bed; noticing that his soulmate automatically goes the side of the bed that Eobard he doesn't sleep on. Is that a deliberate choice based on observation – after all, his nightstand is slightly cluttered with personal items – or is it just another indication of their compatibility?

He doesn't quite rush through evening ablutions, and he does _not_ rub one out in the shower. Not only does his speedster metabolism make that a meaningless exercise, it also feels – well – disrespectful. He can and will control his libido, there is no question of that. 

Without thinking, Eobard uses the damp towel that Barry had neatly folded and returned to the rack, despite the stack of clean ones at hand. It's a crazy moment of intimacy, one that he can't question. Barry is his soulmate, the fact that he is here, in this house, in his bed, is the culmination of Eobard's life's work. Everything he's done since he'd been told that the mark on his arm was a testament to tragedy has been to bring them together.

His life is complete.

__

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me at my tumblr [Obscene Circus Ponies](http://elrhiarhodan.tumblr.com/), and on my old school (and much beloved) [Dreamwidth](https://elrhiarhodan.dreamwidth.org/) account.


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